


Hold

by Boudoir_Writer



Series: Deal [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: A little, A smidge of self-hatred, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Begging, Bottom Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Crying, Deals, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Edging, Hair-pulling, If You Squint - Freeform, Kneeling, M/M, Mild Humiliation, Mob!Nicky, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Riding, Sex to pay off debts, Smoking, Top Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Under-negotiated Kink, Virginity, a smidge of angst, mild choking, no powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 18:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30127257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boudoir_Writer/pseuds/Boudoir_Writer
Summary: “Booker,” Joe starts the moment he opens the frontdoor. “Took you long enough, you coward, where the fuck have you -“It’s not Booker he finds smirking at him on the other side.Eyes narrowed, he takes a step back. This is - unexpected. And not in a good way.“The fuck areyoudoing here?”
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Deal [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2214792
Comments: 46
Kudos: 147





	Hold

**Author's Note:**

> This follows from Tight. It will make more sense if you read that first.
> 
> Please mind the tags. As usual let me know if I missed any. And if you have any questions before reading you can find me on tumblr @ boudoirwriter  
> Unbetaed, sorry.

“Booker,” Joe starts the moment he opens the frontdoor. “Took you long enough, you coward, where the fuck have you -“

It’s not Booker he finds smirking at him on the other side.

Eyes narrowed, he takes a step back. This is - unexpected. And not in a good way.

“The fuck are  _ you _ doing here?”

The man - Di Genova, Joe learnt later, strolls further into the room, ignoring Joe’s question, ignoring Joe in favor of looking over Joe’s things. Not that there’s much to look at, in his shithole of a council flat.

Still, he bristles at those fingers picking up one of his sketches, examining it with a blank expression.

“Do you mind?” he snaps, arms crossed over his chest.

Di Genova lets the sketch fall back on the table, shrugs, takes a sweeping look around with that little judging smile of his.

“You sure could use fifty thousand.”

“From you?” he scoffs. “I don’t want anything from  _ you _ .”

The smile takes an edge. Stupid, stupid Yusuf, why can’t he shut up?

“Everybody wants something from me.”

God, he’s insufferable. But he has Joe by the balls, so to speak, so he can only grit his teeth and brace for the big reveal. The likes of Di Genova don’t get into dingy council flats for tea and biscuits.

“Yes, well, I suppose I do want you to leave,” Joe mutters.

He knows it’s not happening. Nothing will happen unless his majesty, great master of London gamblers, Nicky fucking Di Genova wants it. And he wants to make Joe miserable, that much Joe can tell.

“No?” Joe sighs. “Well then, what do  _ you _ want?”

Instead of answering, the asshole lights a cigarette. Joe opens his mouth to protest but the flinty look he gets stops him in his tracks. Well, he supposes he should be grateful that the council hasn’t sent anyone to sort out the smoke alarm yet.

Di Genova walks over to the ratty couch, sniffs, then seems to decide it's good enough for him and sits down. Or rather sprawls. Joe does not glance at his crotch - he does not.

Okay, maybe he does. A little.

“I want you to ride me.”

Joe coughs. He blames the damn smoke, not choking on his spit. “What?” He’d like to think he sounds pissed off, but he knows the word comes out shaky, brittle.

He gets a levelled stare for his trouble. Those eyes should feel cold, how could they feel anything else, but their touch to Joe’s skin is scorching. It ignites something in his belly, something Joe doesn’t like to think about. He knows his face is going warm and he hates himself a little for how easily he lets this guy unsettle him.

“Yeah, how about no?” he bites out.

The thing is Di Genova could threaten, could call his henchmen that Joe can hear standing just outside his flimsy door and have them teach Joe some proper respect. But he doesn’t need to do any of that. He knows, Joe knows. The henchmen outside know. It’s either this or Di Genova’s next stop will be Booker’s place. Booker won’t be home, Joe knows he hasn’t shown up his ugly face since this whole shitstorm started, the coward. But Adèle is. And so are the kids.

Di Genova smokes and watches, heavy lidded and faintly amused. He waits for Joe to get the whole ugly picture, connect the dots.

Must be entertaining, Joe decides, teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurts, must be entertaining watching people bend to your will, even as he goes to get lube and condoms from his bedroom. When he comes back, he gets his sweatpants and underwear off, keep his t-shirt because fuck if he is giving the guy anything he doesn’t expressly ask for. 

Then he stands there, pretending his dick is not getting hard, pretending he will still have some self-respect left when Di Genova will finally, hopefully fuck off.

Di Genova nods to the space between his legs and Joe rolls his eyes but shuffles over, gets down to his knees. Talk about lording it over someone. At least he hasn’t been told to kiss this shiny oxfords - yet. He bites his lips, lest he give the guy any more ideas, and squirts some lube on his fingers, reaches back and gets to work. Yes, he should think of it like work shouldn’t he? Whoring himself out to cover his so called friend’s loser ass. He appreciates the irony, but the sting stays. And the unmistakable swelling of his dick. God, what’s wrong with him?

Like this Di Genova has an unobstructed view of Joe’s face. He wishes he could be as impassive as the guy, but the truth is he has to close his eyes and hold back a moan as soon as he slips a finger in, sink it deep and wriggle it around to get the lube where he needs it. Was he always this desperate?

“Look at me.”

Joe jerks his head, because fuck  _ no _ , but a large palm comes to cradle the side of his face, almost cool against his flaming cheek. His eyes fly open before he can stop them, and he is just as open, just as known.

_ Shit _ , he thinks,  _ shit _ , blinking stupidly and meeting the storm head on. The storm smiles, pleased.

“Another.”

And another finger it is. Joe presses further in, bites off a groan. There’s the thud of his heart and the squelch of lube and the stutter of his breath, puffing against Di Genova’s thumb, where it rubs at his bottom lip, salt and nicotine and skin.

Joe tells himself he doesn’t want to suck it into his mouth, he doesn’t want to taste.

“Another.” It’s too much, too soon, too  _ good _ . He hisses at the stretch, but it turns into a growl at Di Genova’s responding snort.

“Still tight, uh? Need to work on that.”

“Fuck you,” he spits. Di Genova shrugs, unfazed, removes his hand with a last sweep of his thumb to Joe’s lip, lays his arm on the back of the couch, the picture of self-assuredness. Joe hates him a bit more.

“Go on then.” He vaguely gestures to his crotch. “I don’t have all day.”

Joe clenches his teeth so hard something pops in his jaw but he wrenches his fingers out of himself, wipes them on his t-shirt.

Di Genova finishes his cigarette, clearly expecting Joe to do all the work. Joe rolls his eyes and unbuttons on his designer slacks, pulls his cock out. It’s only half hard and somehow that makes Joe’s full blown erection all the more humiliating.

With a resigned sigh he starts jerking him off, quick and practical. Di Genova looks as affected by the proceedings as if Joe had been trying to get him aroused by demonstrating the functionalities of a kitchen blender. He takes a last drag of his cigarette and drops the butt into the mug Joe left on the side table. It sizzles in the dregs of his coffee, a last curl of smoke rising to the popcorn ceiling.

_ Fuck this shit _ , Joe thinks, and with another weary sigh he puts his mouth on Di Genova’s dick. He doesn’t look up, he doesn’t need to to know that the bastard is smirking at his further debasement.

He mouths at the silk smooth skin, laps at it and finds a vicious sense of satisfaction when it starts stirring. It’s as thick as he remembered, heavy and warm.

Joe licks at the palm of his hand, resumes jerking him off as he wraps his lips around the head, coaxes a bead of precome from the slit with flat strokes of his tongue. It occurs to him that maybe this could be enough - and takes it a bit deeper, until it nudges at the back of his throat and he has to gulp down saliva and precome. Yes, this could be it, he thinks, until Di Genova’s fingers close in his hair and tug, hard. He pulls off with a hiss, spit dribbling down his chin.

Di Genova doesn’t let go, just watches him for a long moment, eyes like pebbles, lips thin.

“What?” he blurts with a frown. He did watch his teeth, didn’t he?

“I said ride me.” It’s clipped and sharp. God, this guy’s mood changes so fast it’s giving Joe whiplash. With a huff he shakes his curls free from his unmoving grip, scalp smarting.

“Watch the goods,” he mutters, but he gets up. He takes a condom from the strip he got from the bedroom, and Di Genova takes his wrist in turn.

Joe scoffs, suppresses the instinct to wrench his arm free.

“Trust me, you want to wear one. You don’t know where I’ve been,” he says honey sweet, and adds a toothed grin for good measure.

Di Genova blinks, for once taken aback, then he laughs, head thrown back, wild and unrestrained.

“Oh, I know exactly where you have been.” He licks his lips, eyes boring into Joe’s. His hand is still on Joe’s wrist, unshakeable. He pulls Joe closer, until Joe has no choice but to straddle him. “There’s a reason they say virgin tight.”

Joe swallows, and swallows. He’s only clad in his faded t-shirt, he’s got lube trickling down his thigh, this guy’s slick on his tongue and yet it is only now, now that he feels stripped naked.

He needs - he needs to get away, hide, but can only sit there, pinned under that gaze.

He turns away, eyes burning with angry tears, staring unseeing at the peeling plaster on the wall, trying to get his thudding heart back under control. What control? He’s fucking  _ unraveling _ . He focuses on breathing through the rage at his helplessness, at the unfairness of the situation because he was free,  _ free _ \- finds he can’t, he  _ can’t _ , not until there’s a sharp tug at his hair, forcing him to meet that gaze again.

There’s something there, something like pity. Joe won’t stand for it.

“Yeah well, who knows where  _ you _ have been,” he mutters. Di Genova’s answer is a twitch of lips, but he lets go of Joe long enough to let him reach down between them and roll a condom on his cock with shaky hands, smear more lube down it.

Then Di Genova’s arm loops around his waist, his other hand lining his dick against his hole. Joe braces with his hands on those large shoulders and takes it. There are no other words for how Di Genova just sits him down on his cock.

He’s gasping at the stretch, head buzzing with the sting of it, the incomprehensible  _ pleasure _ of it.

The order doesn’t register at first. The playful smack to his thigh does, travels all the way to his own neglected dick.

“Move.”

He moves, chewing on his lips in an attempt to keep his punched out gasps in. It’s like Di Genova’s dick was made to nail Joe’s prostate, there’s no other explanation for how it bangs right on it with each torturous thrust.

Joe is breathless with the tease of it, his cock now dripping like the broken faucet in his bathroom. If Di Genova is concerned about ruining his fancy suit, he doesn’t show.

He just watches Joe as he fucks himself on Di Genova’s dick and Joe would think him dissatisfied with his performance if he couldn’t see the way the black of his pupils has eclipsed the bluegreen of his irises, an a pink hue has spread across the bridge of his nose. Di Genova starts punching up with his hips and Joe realizes he’s moments away from a blinding orgasm. He can’t help but wonder if it would be like this with another guy. To his chagrin, he suspects not. He’s livid that he’s so easy for this asshole, that somehow this man, this one man of all people can make feel like this, like he’s too much for his own skin to contain.

But right now getting off is more urgent than soul searching. He can deal with the fragments of his shattered ego later. Or never, if he has any say in it.

Now, now he closes his eyes, wraps a hand around his throbbing dick, gives a delicious pull - god, he’s so close he can taste it.

Di Genova’s hand clamps down on his wrist and pulls his hand off, wrenches it behind Joe’s back.

Joe loses his rhythm, the pleasure dropping back to a frustration simmer. He growls, meets that asshole’s insufferable gaze, tries to twist his wrist out of that bruising grip.

“What?” He snaps. Or tries to: Di Genova’s other hand closes around his throat. Not choking but  _ almost _ . Joe does not lean into it, his lids don’t flutter, he doesn’t almost come anyway because of Di Genova’s hand around his neck. He doesn’t. He swallows and swallows, though, saliva flooding his mouth, his Adam apple rolling into that large, warm palm, like some strange pet.

“You don’t come before I say,” Di Genova is telling him. The words come at him as if from a distance, he’s too distracted by the rough thumb pressing against Joe’s frantic pulse.

He licks his lips, finds them dry, numb. 

Di Genova squeezes harder, just for a second, just when Joe is trying to breathe out and he keens as the pressure builds in his head, pushing at the back of his eyes, against his eardrums. His head gives a sharp nod before his brain can catch up with the motion

He doesn’t know what’s worse, mourning the loss of Di Genova’s hand around his throat or having that same hand patting his flaming cheek. 

No, it’s the way his stupid dicks drool at the bastard smug praise: “Good boy.”

Joe averts his eyes, plants his hands on Di Genova’s chest and starts moving again. He needs this over with. He needs Di Genova to fuck off. And he needs a shower, though he’ll never feel clean again, will he?

It turns out he shouldn’t have bothered trying to tug at his dick - a couple of thrusts and he has to grit his teeth, abdomen clenching down like a vise to try and keep his orgasm in.

“I can’t -“ he gasps after a particularly good scrape against his prostate. “I  _ can’t _ .”

Di Genova chuckles, then hand wraps around Joe’s dick like it wrapped around his throat, entitled, sure, possessive. Joe doesn’t care, he’s flooded with relief, with  _ yes yes yes please _ , at least until those fingers squeeze cruelly at the base, hard enough to choke his orgasm into maddening need.

He groans, curses, slaps a hand against Di Genova’s chest, but otherwise doesn’t try to fight him, this.

He resumes moving before he’s even told, blinking frustrated tears out of his eyes, biting his lips. It’s  _ torture _ , the need to come so urgent he hurts with it. Tears drip steadily down his cheeks and he’s so livid at Di Genova, at himself, he could swear he’s swollen with it.

And yet, when he approaches the peak again, again he begs.

“Please.” It bursts out of him in a broken gasp before he can think better. It turns out it’s all the warning Di Genova needs to deny him relief.

Joe thinks he starts babbling at some point. Or sobbing. He can’t tell. He can’t tell how many times Di Genova has dragged him back from the edge, kicking and screaming. He can’t even think beyond the primal brain impulse to keep his thighs moving to keep begging  _ please please please _ .

“That’s it,” Di Genova is saying. “Let them hear how much you want it.”

He’s faintly aware of a wave of fresh humiliation crashing into him, the knowledge that the whole fucking  _ estate _ is possibly listening in to his unconditional surrender, but it’s quickly drowning in his despair, in his need.

“Please.” And then. “ _ Nicky _ .”

He doesn’t know why he reaches for that name, why he thinks that it will get him anything when everything else has failed him. It’s unfamiliar in his mouth and yet it rolls out as easily as if it has always belonged there, spilling from his lips, wet with tears, airborne on a sigh.

“Yes.” Di Genova,  _ Nicky _ is saying, fingers digging bruises into Joe’s hips as he slams up, feral now, all that cold restraint snapping, ice giving under Joe’s feet, plunging him in freezing waters. Joe can’t even scream, only go under. “Yes,  _ fuck _ .”

He thinks Nicky is coming. Maybe he is too.

Hard to tell when the world just explodes into black.

When he opens his eyes again he’s lying sideways on his couch, come already drying on his belly. He tries to sit up but his back protests, his ass beyond sore and his thighs stiff. He’ll get up in a minute, he thinks, have a long  _ long _ shower, assess the damage, beat himself up for letting Di Genova play him like a fiddle. For now, though, Joe breathes in the smell of cigarette and sex and them and basks in the afterglow.

**Author's Note:**

> Can anyone guess where I’m going with this? No? One more part coming, I think.
> 
> If you liked it, let me know!


End file.
